


Dressing Knife

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bloodplay, Coitus Interruptus, Cutting Clothes Off, F/M, Femdom, Fight Sex, Future Fic, Knifeplay, Older Man/Younger Woman, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Strange things happen at three in the morning, he knows from experience, most of them sordid. He figured he’d gotten a little too old for most of the strange things that happen at that hour. He figured wrong.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressing Knife

**Author's Note:**

> [Kinkmeme prompt](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/13546.html?thread=9040362#cmt9040362) (my own). For the purposes of this fic I am ignoring the manga semi-reveal of chapter 56, as well as the ongoing working-relationship development between the two of them.

Mikasa Ackerman is twenty and a squad leader. Since girls mature early, unlike most of her male comrades from the 104th she hasn’t gained any height in the last five years. But, now an adult and entitled to an officer’s meat-rich diet, she’s at the peak of her strength. _Two_ hundred soldiers, supposedly, no longer just a measly _one_ hundred.

Levi can see forty on the horizon like a fifteen-meter aberrant. He knows he should be grateful; he should have been dead by now many times over. He’s still a compact, lethal bundle of muscle and reflex. But a few years ago, old injuries started saying _Hello, remember me?_ more often, new ones started taking longer to heal, and all of them started hurting more during cold, damp weather. Which they have a lot of. He keeps it to himself. Partly because that’s how he is, partly because the new recruits don’t need to see him as vulnerable, partly because the one time he bitched about it to Hange he got a not-very-sympathetic “Welcome to the club” in response.

Evidently Mikasa can’t sleep tonight, and he barely sleeps anyway. Which is why both of them are in the castle’s mess hall at three in the morning. She’s in full uniform minus the 3DMG and plus that fucking scarf that doesn’t get washed nearly often enough, and she’s pacing the length of the hall and scowling. He’s in a loose shirt, trousers, and shoes, seated with a cold cup of tea by his elbow and watching her stalk around the large, cavernous room.

He knows what’s been pissing her off, because there are no secrets in the Survey Corps. Eren, another squad leader now, is fucking yet a third, a woman who graduated from the 105th. Mikasa is said to be nearly as smart, nearly as fast a learner, as their strategist friend Armin Arlert. Evidently not when it comes to Eren Jaeger.

“I thought he was your ‘brother’?” Levi asks “innocently.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mikasa says stonily, not looking at him.

“Sure you don’t.” He picks up his teacup and takes a sip, concealing one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You should be happy he’s found someone. Our lives are hard enough, aren’t they? Maybe he’ll bring her home for dinner someday. See if Protective Big Sister approves of her.”

She turns her head. If her eyes were blades he’d be dead in his chair. Fuck, it’s _fun_ to wind this girl up. He knows he’s being an asshole (what else is new), he knows that if she were better rested she’d just ignore him. But he’s getting a reaction out of her. He doesn’t see her react to very much, other than when she’s screaming at titans or staring forlornly at her oblivious “brother.”

“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” she snaps.

“Because part of my job is to look out for the people under me, including their emotional well being.”

Which is true, as far as it goes. Right at the moment he’s not looking out for Mikasa Ackerman’s well being, not exactly. He knows it, and he doesn’t lie to himself. Not exactly. He rationalizes, just a bit. Learning to take a little ball-busting would be good for Mikasa Ackerman’s well being, right? 

So would a cold dose of reality, and the acceptance thereof. He wonders if she’s ever taken her eyes off Eren long enough to get laid by someone actually interested. If any human who’s ever walked the earth needed to get laid it’s Mikasa Ackerman. And it’s not like there’s ever been a shortage of eager candidates, male _or_ female. Their horse-faced former squadmate who’s now trying to clean up the Military Police — _good luck with_ that, _kid,_ he thinks — would probably even let her throw a saddle on him before she rode him.

“And that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she says. He’s worked with her long enough to recognize the sarcasm in her flat tone.

“I’m being completely honest with you.” He reassumes his usual lack of expression. “Are you going to pine for him all your life, which, odds are, isn’t going to be that long? You could have anyone else, multiple anyone elses, but you’re never going to have Eren. So why let it eat you alive that he’s…” He raises the teacup out of necessity again. “… slipping his ‘little titan’ to someone else?”

Her mouth opens. Her eyes aren’t like blades now, they’re like cannons. This is highly entertaining. “Which,” he continues, “unlike his _big_ titan, probably _can_ get ha—”

 _“Fuck you,”_ she barks. He still outranks her and he could call her out for the insubordination. But no one else is around to hear it. He’d rather keep on goading her. He doesn’t recall ever hearing her use the word _fuck_ before.

“Nah,” he says, the other corner of his mouth twitching now behind the cup. “I don’t think I’m the replacement you’re looking for.”

She just stares at him for a split second. Then she launches herself. He’s still fast, but she’s now faster, and she has the advantage of surprise. The teacup shatters on the flagstones and the dregs of the tea soak his shoulder as she lands. Her left shin bears down across both his thighs, her right boot pins his left hand to the wooden armrest, the nails of her left hand dig into his right wrist, and she holds a blade to his throat. Not a 3DMG blade. A knife, the kind hunters use to skin and gut their kills. Short and thick and nastily honed, with a channel for blood.

He stares at her in disbelief. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ speak to me about Eren like that,” she growls.

 _“Get. Off. Me.”_ He enunciates each word distinctly, his voice as low and as menacing as hers. “You have just assaulted a superior officer. I could have you in chains within the hour. I could have you executed for treason. I might do it just for the teacup. I _liked_ that teacup, you destructive brat, a lot better than I like you.”

“You won’t,” she says. Not smugly, more like she’s looking at dark clouds and predicting rain. “You’re not going to _let your emotions get the better of you_ by having a high-kill-count veteran arrested and her squad demoralized over your ego and a broken cup.” She pauses. “Besides. You’d have to live to do it.”

He can’t believe he’s hearing this shit. “Are you crazy? You’re going to ruin your own life because I busted your figurative balls about Eren? And you carry a fucking _dressing knife_ on your off-hours? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

She presses the edge of the blade into his throat. Just enough. “I still owe you for him.”

“What are you talk—” He blinks. “The _tribunal?_ ” When her expression doesn’t change he knows he’s right. “I _saved his life,_ you fucking idiot! How come he knew that right away and you still don’t after five years? You’re smarter than he is, or so they say. And I was pulling my kicks. I didn’t break any bones in his face, did I?”

“Total angel of mercy, you are,” she says without inflection.

“And if I didn’t do it, you wouldn’t have been able to protect him from anything else anymore,” he snarls. “So what the fuck is your problem?”

Her eyes glint like the barrel of a well-oiled gun as she turns her hand just slightly. He feels a light sting to the skin over his throat.

“Because I had to watch it happen.”

He stares at her, expression flat again, then without warning head-butts her hard. She grunts in pain and surprise, and the moment in which her balance is threatened gives him the window of opportunity to shove her off. She lands on her feet, knife held tight and close, as if she had the same informal pre-Corps education he did.

He rises from the chair, throat smarting — and left thigh protesting. Her knee had been digging into the old injury there with a good deal of her weight atop it. Like him, she’s heavier than she looks. His old street training makes him careful not to give voice to the pain or wince with it. How long he’ll be able to conceal it from her if they end up fighting in earnest is another matter.

“You don’t want to do this, Mikasa,” he says quietly. He doesn’t, either, and not only because of his leg. She’s right: It’d be a tremendous waste of a good soldier, a blow to her men’s morale, bad publicity for the Corps. But if she doesn’t stand down, and she injures him seriously or if the fight draws people out of their beds, keeping her in uniform would be much worse. “Go back to your quarters. Once you’ve gotten some sleep and you realize how stupid you were being, we can discuss—”

This time he was expecting her to fly at him. He drops into a crouch and punches upward, hoping his fist will connect with her solar plexus. He hits her abdomen instead, judging by feel and by the winded gasp out of her. On her way down she seizes his wrist in her free hand and wrenches hard. He tears it out of her grasp easily enough, but now he’s off-balance. Just before she hits the floor, the toe of her boot goes into his hip, and then her weight knocks him flat. She sprawls in a half-assed diagonal across him, her right thigh between both of his.

He pushes himself upward and seizes her by the collar — and the fucking knife is right back at his throat. As his eyes drop to the blade, she shifts her right leg, and the edges of his vision flicker white.

“Leg bothering you these days, old man?” she sneers, pressing her knee into his thigh and bearing down for all she’s worth.

“Same leg you fucked up five years ago, acting just like you are now,” he gasps.

“It was the other leg, liar.” She fists one hand in his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp. He says nothing; he _was_ lying. She waits for him to catch his breath, and it takes him slightly too long to wonder why. Then he catches the bewilderment, or what passes for bewilderment with her, in her face.

“Really? This turns you on?”

_Shit._

Levi closes his eyes. “That happens in combat. It’s got precisely jack and shit to do with wanting to fuck. Maybe if you’d tried at any point in your life to score some attainable dick, one kind soul or another would’ve told you that.”

“You have a big mouth for someone with a knife at his throat,” Mikasa observes.

“I’ve been told that before.” 

“You’re probably lying again, too.”

He scoffs. “You don’t believe I’ve been told that?”

“No… not about that.”

He opens one eye. “How would _you_ know?”

She replies with two motions: rocking the top of her thigh against his hard-on, and trailing the point of the dressing knife almost lovingly over the pulse in his throat.

He throbs hard. Quite hard. However little experience she’s had with cocks, she can’t have missed it. She hasn’t, either, going by the pull at the corners of her mouth. She grinds into him again, and he hisses out his breath.

“So you’re… compounding your misbehavior with _sexual_ assault now,” he says, voice a little unsteady. God, he’s full of shit tonight.

Her face hardens suddenly, bottom lip curling. She lowers the knife, releases his hair, and starts to push herself up from him with her freed left hand.

 _Bridge too far for you?_ he thinks, then suddenly remembers what he knows about her very first encounter with Eren Jaeger. He doesn’t think she wants his sympathy. Before he can think any more he grabs her by the shoulder. The knife reappears at his throat. “Finish what you start, Squad Leader,” he bites out, each word once again taut and distinct.

The hard look fades to one of surprise. Now that she’s figured out he’s not going to punch her again (tonight, anyway) or have her arrested (well, probably not), she hesitates for a moment. Then she lowers herself again — and this time it’s not her thigh but her crotch against his, her knees straddling his hips. She braces her left palm on the floor and, as she begins to rock against him, trails the knife point down from the hollow of his throat and begins to trace his collarbone.

Levi tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling, filthy with years of grease and — fuck’s sake, is that _graffiti?_ Dumbfuck drunken recruits with 3DMG when there are no officers around. Someone will be cleaning that up and it won’t be him. He folds the mental note and returns his attention to the warm pressure of Mikasa Ackerman grinding against him, contrasted with the cool pressure of the hunter’s blade delineating the turns of his clavicle. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the disgusting ceiling while the remarkably fucked-up soldiering prodigy lying on top of him uses him as her personal masturbatory device and caresses him with something that can slash through boar hide. 

Strange things happen at three in the morning, he knows from experience, most of them sordid. Notwithstanding the odd hours the Survey Corps keeps and his own sleep problems, he figured he’d gotten a little too old for most of the strange things that happen at that hour. He figured wrong. He wonders if maybe he’s taken a few too many blows to the head as well as the body, and instead of it hurting in raw weather it convinces him to do things that Eren Jaeger — never mind Eren, Connie Springer — would have dismissed as too stupid for words.

His eyes fly open to the sound of tearing fabric. “Oi!”

Mikasa stops and looks up. The blade hovers just above his navel, his shirt divided neatly in two above and still intact below. Her eyes are at the same time dreamily unfocused and hyperaware.

“Are you going to destroy everything I own that you can get your hands on tonight?” he demands, even though he’s throbbing again. Okay, it’s kind of hot, he’ll admit to himself. But clothing’s not cheap and the Corps isn’t made of money.

“Maybe,” she says, as if he hadn’t asked her a rhetorical question.

He sighs, trying to make it sound more put-upon than aroused. “Might as well finish off the shirt. Don’t do that to my trousers.” He bites his tongue before he can extend that sentence with _…okay?_

She nods, nostrils flaring a little, and then she whips the rest of the blade down to and through the hem. With the fingers of her left hand and the tip of the knife, she throws back the halves of Levi’s shirt. 

The mess hall is chilly at this hour and this time of year, but he pulses with heat from the forehead down. He’s been told by various bed partners that he can go from dead pallid to bright red in seconds. Enough sconces burn in the hall, even in the dead of night, that Mikasa has to have noticed. She doesn’t remark on it.

She runs her left fingertips down over his right pectoral muscle, passing lightly over the scars, thumb grazing his nipple. He inhales sharply and closes his eyes again as she traces his abs, then lays her palm flat over them. It feels like a brand. He arches his hips, seeking more contact. She hasn’t resumed grinding against him since cutting his shirt open. But her pelvis is still between his thighs. Between the two or three layers of clothing separating them, she’s soft. Possibly… faintly damp.

The knifepoint trails coolly down the feverish skin of his chest, and Levi watches it move as if mesmerized. Just under the left pectoral, she stops and jerks her wrist just slightly, just so. The blade bites lightly — an insect sting, no more than that. A crimson bead wells up on his skin. Mikasa, the strange look still in her eyes, reaches out a fingertip, swabs it up, lifts it to her mouth—

“What the fuck,” Levi says, hoarse and incredulous, lifting himself up slightly on his elbows. “That’s disgusting. And _dangerous._ They did teach you about bloodborne diseases in training, didn’t they?”

Mikasa ignores his outburst as she slips the finger between her lips. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks it clean, then slides it from her mouth again. He stops breathing for a moment.

“Why?” she asks mildly. “Who, or what, have you been sticking it into?”

He scowls at her, both for the insolent question itself and for the trap beneath it. He isn’t about to tell her he’s been having a dry spell lately. “We both get sprayed with all sorts of filth on a regular basis. You think that can’t get into a person’s bloodstream somehow?”

She makes a slow, deliberate show of licking her fingertip completely clean, despite there only having been a drop of blood to start with. Her tongue, he notes, is very, very pink. “And yet,” she says reflectively, “nobody in the Survey Corps has ever come down with a mysterious titan-borne ailment.”

“It’s still disgusting,” Levi says somewhat less convincingly as he lowers himself back to the floor. Mikasa shrugs and concentrates again on the juncture of her knife and his skin. He can feel her hot black gaze there, just like he can feel the cold grey metal.

She trails the point further down, over his abdominal muscles. The first droplet of sweat runs down his forehead into the hair at his temple. She wouldn’t, he knows. He _thinks,_ anyway. But once you’ve seen a man gutted alive it’s not an image that leaves your mind easily. Especially not when there’s a knife against your own belly, held there by someone who holds a seething, irrational grudge against you.

He doesn’t know whether to be less or more nervous when the point continues downward and she wriggles it, almost teasingly, just beneath his waistband.

“I… told you not to slice up the trousers,” he huffs.

“I won’t,” she says mildly. She makes good her word, laying the knife down on the floor with an audible click, somewhere further beyond his reach than hers. Then she’s undoing his belt, then his flies. With the sudden rush of blood to those parts he wonders briefly how she’ll get the trousers off him at all.

Of course, it’s simple. He’s wearing nothing beneath, and she hooks her fingers in the waistband and tugs the garment down, Levi raising his hips in acquiescence. She leaves them bunched up just below his knees.

The floor is cold against his ass. He doesn’t feel it, not much, because Mikasa Ackerman has his cock in her left hand and his body could probably burn a hole in the flagstones right now. His mouth is open. He hopes he’s not panting.

Then he feels the knifepoint, cold and businesslike, insinuate itself under his foreskin. Panting, he thinks, would be better than the noise he’s just made. Nothing that high-pitched has come out of his mouth since he was thirteen.

She looks up at it, startled — _amused_ , goddamn her. “You want me to stop?” 

If he says yes, he’ll be catching that startled amusement lurking under her impassive façade as long as they’re both alive, surfacing when no one else can see it, resubmerging before he can call her on it. Instead he snaps, “What did I tell you earlier?”

The mirth in her smile dissolves. She’s back in the dream-focus. Levi recognizes it now. It’s what some people call “flow,” when you’re no longer you but just the instrument of your own purpose. Your own purpose could be felling titans, or hunting hares, or pulling out someone’s fingernails, or making like you’re about to circumcise your own commanding officer on a whim. He wants to ask her again if she intends to destroy the things he needs, things that can’t be easily replaced. He doesn’t. He heard her answer before, and he’s anything but sure she spoke purely in jest.

The tip of the knife remains between his foreskin and his cock, playing idly there, its coolness delicious on his hot, hot skin even as he remotely registers his ass going numb against the flagstones. _My specialty is lacerating flesh,_ she told a crowd in Trost ages ago, with two dead men at her feet. Not the first ones, not the last. She knows as well as he does how flesh parts under the blade. Titan flesh, or human. The prized secret alloy reserved for the Survey Corps, or common steel carried by common hunters to rend the toughest hides. Hamstrings, or throat, or belly, or—

When the point slips out, he misses its cool caress immediately. Then he sucks in his breath as Mikasa’s left fist closes around him, sliding backward, baring him completely. The air of the mess hall is chilly against his cock, but not as chilly as the reapplied point of the dressing knife tracing complex patterns over the head and just underneath. He knows he should watch her hands intently, alert to any fine motion that would warn him she was about to tip the game from the merely fucked up back into the deadly. Instead, Levi closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and directs every ounce of attention he commands to the sensation of pointed steel stroking one of the most vulnerable parts of his body.

He opens them again when the sensation vanishes and the knife clicks quietly against the stone floor. He raises his head and lifts himself up on his elbows as Mikasa rises to her feet.

She steps less than a meter away. Her hands go to the buttons of her uniform blouse, undoing them without looking. Her expression is impassive, but the color is high in her cheeks, and her eyes are no longer cannons but cannon fire. After shedding her blouse she drapes it neatly over the back of the nearest chair. For Levi’s benefit? Who knows. Other than the too-ripe scarf she is, he’ll admit, neat and clean enough in her appearance.

She hasn’t gotten any taller, no, and her frame’s still hard and wiry. But, older and properly fed now, she’s considerably less boyish. After the bra joins her blouse over the back of the chair, her small breasts bob on her chest as she stoops to remove her boots and set them aside. Then she shimmies out of her trousers and underpants as one. Her hips have widened in the last few years, too. His eyes fix on the neatly trimmed black triangle set dead-center between them.

Bare feet quiet on the cold stones, she steps back toward him — and then, only then, it hits him.

“You’re still wearing that fucking scarf.”

“Yes,” she says, pulling it up over her mouth as she lowers herself over him and plants a knee on either side of his hips.

“Take it off,” he orders.

She lifts her head and glares at him. Her voice is muffled. “The scarf stays, or I don’t. _Sir._ ”

It occurs to him that tonight she’s started a brawl with him, she’s broken his favorite teacup, she’s held a knife to his throat, she’s held a knife to his _dick_ , and she’s apparently about to go for a ride on it now. The scarf, he admits to himself, is a stupid hill to die on.

“All right,” he sighs, and this time he takes less care to make it sound like a grand concession.

Mikasa’s left hand closes around his cock again. It pulses hard against her palm. She remains expressionless as her right hand moves between her thighs. He watches her insinuate her forefinger between her cunt lips, hears the faint, moist sound. Her fingertip slides upward, and for the first time she registers pleasure: eyes closing, mouth falling open.

Levi’s own mouth feels packed with sand. He’s not averse to wetting it with something other than tea — hauling Mikasa into the air, holding her by the hips over his face, seeing what kind of noises he can wring out of her. He’s rising from the floor with his palms braced against it, and he’s just begun to reach forward when her eyes fly open and her right hand moves down to her side again, closing around the knife handle.

He blinks. “I was going to—”

“Lie still,” she interrupts harshly from behind the scarf.

He takes a deep breath and lowers himself back to the floor. If she wants to do all the work, fine, no one can say she didn’t pick up a good work ethic in the Corps.

On his back with his chin raised, at least he’s got her cunt in his direct line of vision. He watches fixedly as she returns two fingers to it this time, sliding them up and down the cleft, making soft juicy noises and occasionally affording him a flash of swollen crimson membranes. The fingers come away thickly coated, gleaming in the light from the sconce candles.

She’s still holding him in her left hand, but now she brings her right-hand fingertips to the head of his cock and smears her own wetness over and around it and down the shaft. Levi sinks his teeth into his lower lip, both to stifle another undignified sound and because he’s started to feel a familiar tightening in his balls. He’s too damn old to be coming all over someone’s hand before he can even get inside them.

He sucks in his breath when she guides his cockhead against her and it touches hot, saturated flesh. She shifts her hips, lodging it within her; he can feel the edges of the inner opening embracing it. Then her knees are sliding further and further away from his sides as her pelvis drops. She sinks and sinks, the muscles and tendons of her thighs straining as their angles widen, and he watches himself disappear, centimeter by centimeter, inside her.

There’s no obstruction to speak of, but she’s insanely tight, and she grimaces a little as he bottoms out and she’s more or less sitting on his pubic mound. He can’t mitigate the force of his breathing at this point because he can barely get enough air into his lungs as it is. Her face, what he can see of it, untwists and smooths as she accustoms herself to his girth. Her eyes dart to his and, as she holds his gaze, she contracts once, hard and deliberate, around him.

Levi’s eyes fall shut. He hears himself moan abjectly, then he hears nothing but his own panting for several seconds, and he feels nothing change. When he next opens his eyes, he can tell by the muscles around her eyes and cheekbones that Mikasa is smirking down at him. The knife is back in her right hand, the blade flat against her other palm.

Well, at least his dick’s safe for now.

She stretches out her left hand and falls forward onto the palm, her breasts bouncing again as her torso jerks with the short, sharp stop she comes to. Above him, her short hair falls in a straight, shimmering curtain around her head. She holds the flat of the knife against his breastbone, the point resting again in the hollow of his throat. If he tries to rise again he’ll lose considerably more than a drop of blood.

Her eyes catch his from maybe fifteen centimeters away. “Warn me,” she says sharply. Levi can only nod once before he feels the point prick the skin of his throat, but Mikasa seems to have registered his assent. Keeping her left hand braced against the floor, she draws her entire body backward until she looks like a bow about to release an arrow. Her right hand never leaves the handle of the knife.

She hooks her stone-chilled toes under his knees. Then she lunges forward, squeezing, grinding. She doesn’t fall all the way forward this time but her breasts quiver just the same. The end of her scarf unwinds from the lower half of her face and falls straight down, brushing Levi’s left cheek and giving him a whiff of stale must. It happens just as her clit strikes his pubic bone. She bares her teeth at the contact, eyes falling shut again, and hisses. He flinches in disgust at the ripeness of her scarf even as he can feel himself jump inside her. He wonders how long it’s going to take her to come and if he’s going to last that long.

Mikasa eases herself backward again, then rocks forward on Levi. This time she comes to the same jerky stop with more of her teeth showing and a louder release of breath. The third time her teeth are apart in her open mouth and she grunts, the sound reverberating through her and against Levi’s cock. The end of the scarf hits his cheek again. He’s going to have to scrub his face, as well as his dick and every part of his skin that’s touched the floor, thoroughly after this.

On the fourth thrust she sort of yelps, and with each subsequent stroke the same noise comes out of her throat more and more tattered, on the edge of hiccupy. Eventually Levi stops counting and just watches Mikasa take him, the end of her scarf more or less whipping him in the face now. Her hair’s gotten messier with motion and a bit of sweat, black licks sticking up and out here and there. Her skin is moist, and she’s bright pink from hairline to hips.

The thrusts start getting shorter and closer somewhere after the twenty mark. Mikasa is no longer drawing back all the way but hovering above Levi almost continuously and bearing down harder on him. He’s using the stale aroma from her scarf and the light pain of his own teeth against the inside of his cheek to distract himself from coming. Before long she’s not really doing much except clenching around him and roughly shoving her clit up against his pubic bone. Finally she lets out a kind of mangled squeak and begins to shudder, her grinding getting even sloppier as her balance suffers.

The knife slips out of her hand.

It clatters against the floor as Levi surges upward, the halves of his shirt flying out behind him. He knots his left hand in her hair and his teeth clack against hers as he swallows up her grunt of surprise. His right hand rakes down her torso, pulling savagely at her left nipple, before he moves it further down and back and digs his nails into her left buttock. Her teeth miss the end of his tongue but break the skin of his lower lip as he thrusts violently into her. He tastes copper and iron as he thrusts a second time and realizes immediately that he’s done for. He shoves Mikasa backward and away, hard. There’s a disgusting wet sound as he pops out of her; her ass, palms, and soles hit the floor with one solid smack. She looks satiated, startled, and offended all at once — an expression Levi will find funny later, considering she’s the one who didn’t want him coming inside her. Right now all he cares about is getting his fist around his cock. It takes him a grand total of two pulls before he groans brokenly and splatters his own abs with come.

He lets himself fall backward against the floor again to catch his breath. A sweaty lock of hair pokes into his left eye, irritating it. He shakes his head to dislodge it and closes his eyes, and so instead of seeing Mikasa crawl back over him he feels it.

“Again?” he rasps, breathing still not quite evened out yet. “Fucking nympho.”

“Not quite.”

He feels a tension in what’s left of his shirt, and he opens his eyes to see her kneeling astride him. “The fuck are you doing now?”

The blade of the dressing knife is sliding downward through the fabric again, cutting away the right front and side from the back. “You want to clean up, don’t you?” she asks placidly. He doesn’t reply. Whatever; one rag is as good as another. She frees the panel of cloth and cuts it neatly in half, then flings one half over the sticky mess on his belly.

Levi grabs it and begins to mop himself up while Mikasa rises again. Standing off to the side with her feet planted apart, she blots at her cunt with the other half of the rag. Then she balls it up and throws it on the floor and turns around.

“Oi.” He watches the hard, round globes of her ass flex as she walks back toward the chair where she left her clothes. “You’re just going to leave that on the floor?”

She pulls her bra down around her breasts and fiddles behind herself with the clasps. “I figured you have more experience disposing of … that sort of thing than I do.”

Levi scowls at her. Again, though, he can’t argue, and he has to take care of the other half anyway. He grabs the rag she discarded and wraps the one he just used around it while Mikasa buttons up her trousers and then her blouse. She picks up the dressing knife and returns it to a sheath at her hip that's the same shade of white as Survey Corps trousers; easy to miss in candlelight, even a lot of candlelight.

The cold of the floor has started to seep into him again, and as he leans down to pull up his pants his left thigh twinges strongly. Between that and watching Mikasa pull on her boots, then stand and turn toward the door, he feels more waspish than usual despite having just gotten laid. “The least you could do is pick up the pieces of the fucking teacup you broke,” he says, rebuttoning his flies.

“That’s what new recruits are for,” she says over her shoulder. “I think I’ve permanently earned my way out of cleaning duty by now.”

“I can still put you on it,” he threatens.

She stops and turns. She’s smirking again. “You won’t.”

He glares at her. “Has anyone ever told you you’re really fucked up?”

She’s already turned toward the door and started moving again. “The pot calls the kettle black.”

“At least I’ve admitted it,” he calls out. “Publicly.”

She’s out of his sight probably before she’s even heard that last word. 

Shivering a little and muttering profanities, Levi gets to his feet with the ball of rags in his hand, then winces at the new stab of pain in his left thigh. He shucks off what remains of his shirt and throws it over the back of the chair before going to look for the dustpan and broom.


End file.
